


cage of roses, home of thorns

by remywrites (orphan_account)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Will there be angst?, definitely, dystopia au, ill post warnings on the chapters, just a warning there will be mentions of prostitution and drugs at some point?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 12:32:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10617000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/remywrites
Summary: “Go to hell,” Kenma says, this time in his normal speaking voice.“Already here.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> So! This is a... dystopian AU. I plan to make this at least somewhat long and I actually have plans for this fic and how it will end. I'll try to update on a weekly basis, sometimes every two weeks if I'm busy, I'll try to say at the end notes when the next chapter will come out if I can.  
> Anyway enjoy all!

Kenma hates hot weather. 

His tank top sticks to his back with sweat, and he can feel every stray hair that sticks to the back of his neck. His hair is just a fraction too short to get all of it up, and during the heat of this damned summer, it’s almost more trouble than it’s worth. His half-assed plan to dye it blond (he’d heard that black hair heats up more than light hair in the sun from the dude from the ramen shop across the street, but Kenma may need to reevaluate the thought process that lead him to taking that advice from a bald guy) hasn’t been doing much as far as he can tell. Also, the droid he’s been hacking at for the past hour really doesn’t seem to want to work with him despite the simplicity of it’s problem, and he’s been dealing with snarky comments from the damned thing for the duration of the job. 

“That’s the wrong wire, you know,” the droid tells him casually, and Kenma shoots it a glare and mumbles a few choice words under his breath before selecting the right one. “I heard that, you know,” it adds. 

“Go to hell,” Kenma says, this time in his normal speaking voice. 

“Already here.” 

Kenma doesn’t bother to respond to that, because he can’t disagree. They may be on the ground floor, but the shop attracts more heat than the concrete of the street outside, and this droid is a nightmare, and Kenma really just wants to take a nap. It doesn’t help that Shouyou left a few minutes ago, reminding Kenma it’s creeping towards the hour that this droid’s owner will be dropping by. He’s almost as bad as this damned piece of metal. 

The rusted bells on the door jingle and the phrase “speak of the devil” comes to mind as the droid’s owner, a tall man with messy black hair and a constant neutral expression, walks into the shop. He glances at Kenma, who currently has both of his hands in the droid’s belly and no doubt a murderous expression on his face, and cocks one thick eyebrow. 

“Should I come back?” he drawls, peeking around Kenma’s shoulder at the circuitry Kenma’s currently elbow-deep in. He just knows this guy can tell he’s tensed up, but Kenma’s been doing repair work on this droid for what feels like centuries and not once has Matsukawa minded his own business. 

Kenma would probably be intrigued by the highly developed personality and obviously excellent coding job done on the droid if the personality the jackass who made it loaded him with wasn’t such a pain in Kenma’s ass. 

He repairs some wire, which he’s having trouble paying enough attention to with Matsukawa breathing down his neck on top of the judgemental comments spewing from the droid (Hanamaki, he reminds himself, though the devil on his shoulder says this piece of shitty, kind of outdated snark doesn’t deserve a name) and the spot where Hanamaki’s camera is blinks green for a moment, and the droid grinds out a “finally.” 

Kenma disentangles himself from the wiring and restrains himself from slamming the door in Hanamaki’s body shut. 

Matsukawa pays him, and the two leave with only a few more snarky comments (mostly directed at each other; Kenma can’t decide if they’re better or worse together). He’s only got one more project on his immediately relevant to-do list now, and if he gets up early tomorrow, he can get it done for the customer in no time. Even though the sun is well on its way past the roofs of the large, expensive houses on the hill to the west, it’s still viciously hot, and getting the repair job done in the relative coolness of the morning is far more appealing than working in the heat. 

Kenma locks the door to the shop and cleans and stores his tools, wiping down his table and sweeping the floor while he’s at it before grabbing his tablet and making his way to the upstairs apartment where he lives. He can feel the air get marginally hotter as he climbs, a disappointing reminder that the blissful cool the actual shop, which is a few feet below street level, offers doesn’t reach the second floor.

He checks on Natsu first, but she’s already peacefully asleep, only the soft whirr of her breathing machine breaking the quiet of her room. It’s stuffy and even hotter because of the closed window in the room. The only open it on the clearest and windiest of days, when the heavy smog that hangs over the city like a curse lifts for a while and they can see the sky and, in the nighttime from the roof of their home, the stars. 

He gently plucks the tablet Natsu left by her hand from the bed and sets it as quietly as he can on the bedside table next to a vase of flowers. The plant shop owner just down the street always insists on bringing over a fresh bunch every few days, and Kenma knows Natsu loves the glimpse of the outside world she so rarely sees. 

He wishes it were really as beautiful as the bouquets. 

The reality of the city is smog and dirt and poverty. Only the elite live in the neighborhoods on the hill that rises above the layer of grime and barely-breathable air, and even those rich, lucky assholes spend as much vacation time as they can out in the country or near the sea where the air is better and the people are cleaner and they aren’t reminded of the realities of life whenever they look out their windows. 

He slips out of Natsu’s room, shutting the door gently and padding down the hall to his room. It’s just as small but a touch less stuffy, though the air in Natsu’s room is noticeably less putrid. He considers cooking for a brief moment, but Shouyou already left and Kenma’s never been one to eat alone. He needs more than the soft sounds of silverware to distract himself from the feeling of being alone. Usually they have time to eat together, if rushed, but the job with that droid had run late and Hinata had gone rushing off with barely a goodbye. 

He watches the sun dip below the tall houses on the hill idly from his bed, then turns his attention to his tablet, checking his schedule for tomorrow and a few messages requesting appointments. There’s a picture from Ennoshita from the old tech store down the street of what looks to be a record player, which Kenma stares at hungrily for a good minute before shooting an inquiry about the price, but nothing else particularly catches his eye; just a few more repair jobs. 

He plays around a little bit on the game he downloaded recently, but manages to tear himself away with thoughts of the early morning tomorrow. He’d stayed up far too late with it last night anyway. Fatigue pulls at his limbs and fogs his brain, and he barely manages to set his handheld on the floor next to his bed before he’s drifting off to sleep. 

A few hours later, he’s woken up by his ringtone. The time on it reads 12:47, but Akaashi’s name on the caller ID wakes him up faster than any cup of coffee. Akaashi doesn’t call him drunk at all hours, Akaashi messages if he thinks of something important late at night, Akaashi knows how much Kenma hates being woken up. 

“Akaashi?” Kenma mumbles after pressing accept, trying to force lingering sleepiness out of his voice. 

“Kenma, I’m sorry to wake you,” Akaashi says, and Kenma swear his voice wavers a bit. He feels his stomach drop. “It’s the police, they discovered the fighting ring. Kenma, I’m sorry but…” 

Akaashi pauses, and Kenma waits, waits for his world to come crashing down around his ears. 

“Hinata’s been arrested.”

 

The streets of Akaashi’s part of the market, where he sells his games and gaming equipment, are quiet at night. No one needs a mechanic or a flower bouquet or a quick meal when it’s approaching three in the morning and everyone’s asleep. 

The part of town he’s walking, however, is alive with people. Mostly drug dealers and prostitutes and people going into or leaving clubs, laughter on their lips and a stagger in their steps, and Akaashi’s dressed to blend in with short clothing and makeup. It’s a nice perk that he can dress up his face enough not to be recognized after years of practice. It’s truly amazing what a well-done contour, some eyeshadow, and lipstick can do to a person. 

He’s walking as quickly as he can without drawing attention. He’s later than he normally is by over an hour, but he needs to look like any other young person out clubbing. He hates how he always feels on these streets, hates the uncomfortable but familiar feeling of stranger’s eyes drawn to his features like moths to flame, he hates the way men and women brush his arm or his chest as he passes alleyways, murmuring things in his ear, hates the lights and the clothes and the people. 

Around one corner and then another and the bustle dies down, and he slips into an alleyway with only one familiar face standing at the mouth. He doesn’t smile too sweetly at Akaashi but simply nods in greeting, meeting his eyes in a way that makes Akaashi’s thoughts settle. His gaze isn’t appraising or judgemental, just simple acknowledgement. It makes the clothes feel lighter against Akaashi’s skin. 

A woman lets him in through the door, and her eyes do wander, but this time Akaashi doesn’t mind. He’s known Saeko for years. She made him uncomfortable at first, back when memories were fresh and the clothing felt like a trap, but now he turns and shoots her a grin which she returns, eyes flitting to his stomach. 

“Nice shirt, ‘Kaashi,” she comments, and Akaashi lets his eyes flit a few inches downward. 

“Not too bad yourself, Saeko,” he responds. “How’s your brother? Still stirring up trouble?” 

“You know it. He’s found another friend to run around with lately, I’m sure you’ve seen some of their newer antics on the news.” 

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out,” Akaashi promises, and he means it. He may not be involved with the ecoterrorism scene, but he respects what they’re doing, burning down factories and bombing car warehouses, protesting tainted water supplies and air quality. Saeko’s younger brother is young but already a well-known presence, and he can hear the pride in Saeko’s voice when she talks about him. 

He makes his way further into the building, down a long hallway and through a door, down two flights of stairs, then through another door into a cavernous space underground. Everyone’s already there, it seems, and the space is filled with the rush of voices and the rustling of clothes. Akaashi’s eyes flit across the crowd, but before they land on Yahaba or Shirabu someone new catches his eye. 

He’s unfamiliar, which means he must be new. He’s tall and gangly, with odd, messy hair and a sharp grin he shoots Akaashi before turning to another unfamiliar face and muttering something in the guy’s ear. Suddenly both sets of eyes are on him, and Akaashi feels his neck heat up before he dives back into the crowd, moving away from the two strangers and their piercing looks. 

He finds Yahaba easily enough, but he only has time to murmur a quick hello into his ear before a familiar face comes up onto the stage in one corner of the space and everyone quiets down. Iwaizumi has been coming to these meetings for far longer than Akaashi has, though he comes from the upper class. Far fewer members of the elite bother to care about the rest of the population of their city, much less venture down into it to attend underground meetings about redistributing their wealth. Akaashi respects the guy. 

“I’ve got a couple of new guys here tonight,” he says, in his calm but commanding voice that always quiets the crowd. He’s got a presence, even in clothes almost as ridiculous as Akaashi’s, that’s impossible not to notice. He gestures towards a corner of the space, and most of the eyes in the venue turn towards the two men standing there. 

Akaashi’s not entirely surprised to find the two men from before, but this time the taller one with the smirk isn’t the one who catches his eye. His friend, a bit shorter and much stockier, with odd, spiky, two-toned hair and a big grin does instead, and Akaashi may look at him for a beat longer than the crowd before turning back to Iwaizumi. He has interesting eyes. Iwaizumi introduces them as Bokuto Koutarou and Kuroo Tetsurou, though Akaashi isn’t sure which is which, and the people around the two start to strike up conversation as Iwaizumi jumps off the stage and they wait for the next speaker. Akaashi steels himself. 

He pushes to the front of the crowd and steps onto the somewhat flimsy platform that serves as a stage. He’s known to be soft spoken, but the large crowd means he needs to raise his voice, one of the factors he hates most about speaking at these meetings. He can also feel the crowd’s eyes on him, and he feels his skin crawl and that familiar clenching feeling in his gut, like when he walked the streets earlier. He forces it down. 

“The cyborg fighting ring down on 122nd street was busted earlier tonight,” he starts with, never one for introductions or fancy words even with the newcomers. “As far as we know all of the fighters were arrested, but the elites in attendance were allowed to leave without a hitch.” 

He can see narrowed eyes and murmured words drifting through the crowd at that announcement, and he continues. “Those arrested are being held in prison under bail. I propose that we come together to pay their bail and, if we can, lawyers for when they’re put on trial.” 

The crowd erupts into murmurs, and Akaashi can tell that his proposition is not being met with the support he’d hoped for. Hoped for, but not expected. The underground fighters technically have nothing to do with their group, though a few may be members, and they always do their best to fly under the radar; paying full bail for over 20 fighters isn’t something anyone on their side of town can even dream of affording, so they’re bound to draw attention if they bust them all out. Bound to draw attention that most here don’t want, including Akaashi himself. 

If he didn’t have a personal connection to this situation, he would never have supported it. It sets him on edge that he’s willing to throw away his own opinions for a friend, but he doesn’t dwell on it, instead facing the crowd with what he hopes is determination. 

“Why should we pay for the fighters?” a young woman near the front raises her voice enough to be heard over the crowd, question obviously directed at him. “This isn’t the right move. They’re not our own, and they were breaking the law.” 

There’s quiet as Akaashi considers how to counter the question. Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

“Sugawara Koushi was with them,” a thin, reedy voice lifts hesitantly above the crowd, and Akaashi’s eyes find a thin boy with freckles and a furiously embarrassed expression. “He comes here. He was arrested with the other fighters.” 

“Then let’s pay his bail,” the woman counters, and the thin boy ducks his head, seemingly spent. “We don’t need to pay for every single one of those fighters and draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. We can’t be reckless.” 

Akaashi knows she’s right, knows that neither the time nor the situation are right for a move as big as this. He knows it, but the sound of Kenma’s voice over the phone less than an hour before rings in his ears, the panic and fear caused by something Akaashi can try to fix, at least. It feels like a responsibility. Kenma can take care of himself, and so can Shouyou, but Akaashi can’t shake the feeling that he should do everything in his power to help them. 

“We’ll take a vote,” he decides. “Next meeting. To post everyone’s bail, just Suga’s, or no one’s.” 

The crowd murmurs, but he sees nods and shrugs, which is a far cry better than the outright contempt he saw earlier. He’s bought himself time. Only two weeks, but minds are easily changed in the span of a minute.

He’s not much of a talker so he leaves it at that, merging back into the crowd and making his way to his spot next to Yahaba, who’s now joined by Shirabu. They both give him odd looks with varying levels of judgement, which Akaashi elects to more or less ignore. 

“Didn’t know you cared so much about a few fighters,” Shirabu comments with a cocked eyebrow, and Akaashi sighs. 

“It was for a friend, though I can’t say I’m not a little invested myself.” 

“I don’t think enough of this lot share that interest,” Yahaba points out, eyeing the groups of people talking quietly, a few shooting calculating looks at Akaashi. 

“We’ll see how the voting turns out,” Akaashi replies simply. 

Yahaba shrugs and Shirabu rolls his eyes, but before much else can be said on the matter another figure steps up to the stage and begins talking about wage cuts in some of the factories on the fringe of the city. Akaashi more or less tunes out (not that what the woman’s saying isn’t important, but he’s heard it all before and hasn’t seen much of a change) and lets his thoughts drift to Kenma and Hinata. He wonders what Kenma’s doing now, if he bothered to rouse Natsu, how the little girl will take the news. She’s never known a day without Shouyou. Kenma’s like another older brother, that much is obvious in the way she looks at him and how he cares for her, but it’s Shouyou who somehow kept her alive all of those years. 

He remembers the first time he’d met the small boy, only a bit shorter than he is now at eleven (even at that age, Akaashi had been almost as taken aback by the boy’s size as the metal that made up most of the left side of his body) and looking for work, remembers how he’d turned him away with a few coins at the door.

Akaashi’s known Hinata for a few years now through Kenma, and not once has he regretted that choice. 

There are a few more announcements and topics of debate to be discussed, but the meeting is over fairly quickly. Saeko lets small groups out of the door at a time so as not to attract attention on the street as they leave, and he hangs back with Yahaba and Shigeru, talking quietly about a few of the topics brought up in the meeting. 

“What did you think of the new guys?” Yahaba asks them with a raised eyebrow. “The tall one’s kinda creepy looking, don’t ya think?” 

Shirabu shrugs. “Iwaizumi knows what he’s doing, they must be trustworthy,” he pauses, and his lips twitch upward. “Their hairstyles were kind of ridiculous though.” 

Akaashi snorts, thinking back to the nest atop the taller’s head and the odd spikes worn by the other. He glances around at the slowly emptying venue, trying to find either, and spots them near the entrance on the other side of the space. The shorter is talking to his friend animatedly while Iwaizumi looks on with a fond smile. Akaashi’s not sure he’s seen anything resembling that on the man’s face before. 

“It’s weird to see Iwaizumi with his friends,” Akaashi muses. Up until recently Iwaizumi had been one of the only elites in the group, and even now the meetings were primarily made up of the lower class. 

“He looks slightly less murderous,” Yahaba agrees with a lopsided grin. 

“Key word there being slightly,” Shirabu adds as Iwaizumi delivers a well-placed and powerful punch to the lanky one’s arm. Akaashi’s pretty sure it’s just Iwaizumi’s sense of humor, or maybe sense of affection. He’s seen the guy when he’s actually mad, and he’s seen people go down and not get up for a good while. 

The cavernous space eventually empties, and Akaashia, Yahaba, and Shirabu are among the last out the door. The newcomers hang back behind to talk to Saeko, and Akaashi catches the shorter one’s eye just as he’s leaving. He’s undeniably a bit odd-looking, with hair that looks like his morning routine is sticking a fork in an electrical socket and huge golden eyes that Akaashi finds it hard to look away from, but something about the way he carries himself, tall and confident and with an almost innocent spark in his eyes captures Akaashi’s attention.

Yahaba nudges him when Akaashi finds himself holding the man’s gaze for a beat too long again, and he follows his friend out of the door and into the cool almost-dawn of outside. The streets are calmer than when Akaashi walked them earlier, and that along with the presence of the other two next to him for the walk through the worst parts eases the anxiety that always grips him when he walks there alone. Some habits are hard to break. 

Shirabu and Yahaba turn a corner near the end of the strip, and Akaashi bids them a casual goodnight, not nearly as tense to walk the two remaining blocks of the neighborhood until it merges with his own than he normally would be. The first of the pre-dawn light is just beginning to color the sky grey, and despite knowing that such a small difference means nothing in this lawless place, it puts a sureness in his step he doesn’t need to force. Soon the clubs will shut down and the majority of the prostitutes will go to bed, and the neighborhood will be much like any other on this side of town, dirty and undecorated, no blinking lights or flashy clothing to doll up the ruin.

As Akaashi passes by the last block of clubs and gambling houses, he spares a glance up at a tall, narrow whorehouse painted a violent shade of pink.

One day, he’s going to burn that damned place to the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Roast me.


End file.
